


His Companion

by TerraInfirma



Category: If The Emperor Had A Text To Speech Device, Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Magnus Did Nothing Wrong, Porn With Plot, Redemption, Romance, this IS definitely heresy, this is Not Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26629798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraInfirma/pseuds/TerraInfirma
Summary: A slow burn erotic romance set in the If The Emperor Had a Text to Speech Device parody of the Warhammer 40k universe because I am trash (it will get more explicit with plot progression)As the Captain General of the Adeptus Custodes, known by those close to him as Kitten, and Magnus the Red, fallen-then-maybe-redeemed Primarch of the Thousand Sons Legion, journey through space on a clandestine mission to save the Imperium from itself, an uneasy alliance softens into a tentative friendship. But after a fateful encounter with the Lord of Change, Kitten cannot help but begin to see his new friend in an entirely different light, feelings that will cause him to question his loyalties and his understanding of his place in the universe.
Relationships: Magnus the Red/Captain General | Kitten
Comments: 20
Kudos: 95





	1. Farewell to Terra

**Author's Note:**

> I somehow came to the If the Emperor had TTS parody series a bit late, after hearing from it from someone in my local AoS/40k group, and when I did recently binge-watch all of it, I realized that a) it is quite funny and b) yeah I definitely ship them. Just be grateful that as a Death Guard player I did NOT write erotica about my good plaguey bois instead, although I will now hold that threat above the internet in much the same way as the Inquisition might hold an Exterminatus order over anything that kiiiiind of looks like Chaos fuckery. Anyway, this'll be a slow build kind of one. I like the characters and I want to take my time to let them get to know each other better. There's a time and place for the kind of romantic and erotic fic where the point is to bone down ASAP, but I don't feel like that's the vibe I want to go for here. Kind of an enemies-to-friends-to-lovers sort of thing where part of the first bit has already started to happen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Captain General AKA Kitten and Magnus take off from Terra en route to Nocturne, possibly with some stops along the way. Magnus seems excited about the trip, but Kitten is still smarting from being told the Emperor had replaced him as Caretaker and has not-entirely-great feelings about his contract

As the ground fell back below them, the Captain General of the Adeptus Custodes watched Terra grow smaller and smaller through the reinforced windows. Despite his conditioning, he felt a pang of homesickness. How long had it been since he was off-world? He wracked his memory, but could not recall having left home at all since the Battle of Terra and the Emperor's entombment on the Golden Throne. Uncharacteristically for the normally sober and even-keeled High Lord, he found himself wishing that they'd thought to pick up some Fenrisian ale before departure. If there was any time where a drink was called for, either in celebration or to drown his sorrows, the first time he had left the Palace in 10,000 years probably called for it. Of course, he thought looking over at his oddly-matched partner on this journey, maybe it would be best to keep anything that might call to mind the frozen home-planet of the Space Wolves Astartes Legion well out of sight.

Magnus the Red was sprawled comfortably on a couch in the well-appointed cabin, a book hovering in front of his face as he turned the pages effortlessly with his psychic powers. While “only” about 12 feet tall for the moment, he still had arranged his limbs in such a way as to take up the entire Astartes-sized piece of furniture. Technically, this was the Captain General's ship and this was his cabin (and his couch), but when the (former?) daemon Primarch called out in that Prosperan accent of his, simultaneously posh and casual, that he “called dibs”, the leader of the Emperor's personal guard had to concede that he was outranked. Not that he really minded. The other cabin on this ship was small and sparse in comparison—just a simple bunk, a window, a writing desk and an auto-armourer in the corner to allow him to don or remove his power armour solo—but that was really all he needed. To be honest, the mantle of the Captain General fit awkwardly on his shoulders, an ever-present reminder that he was no Constantin Valdor. Even his armour was a little broad for him around the..well, everywhere. Usually when they say you have big boots to fill it isn't quite this literal, but such was the eternal joke of his existence.

“I hear you Custodes haven't travelled much since our little...family dispute. How's the view?”

The Chief Custodian grimaced at the magnitude of such an understatement. That _family dispute_ had caused half the galaxy to burn and resulted in the ~~God~~ Man-Emperor of Mankind, the shining light of Imperial Truth and mankind's saviour from the Age of Strife, being all-but-killed by Horus Lupercal with the help of daemonic forces and his other traitor brothers. Much as he clearly wished to wash his hands of responsibility, Magnus and his Thousand Sons numbered among the Traitor Legions just as surely as Horus and his former Luna Wolves had. Even if Magnus had been welcomed back by his father (currently reduced to a half-mad skeleton on a throne yelling out every stray thought through a Text-to-Speech device the Mechanicus technicians had installed) the memory of that time still made the Custodian's skin crawl beneath his mastercrafted golden armour. It was a wonder he hadn't broken completely with the guilt of having failed to stop it like many of his comrades-in-arms had over the millenia.

“Family dis—you know what, I'm not going to touch that. It's fine. Been a while since I've gone anywhere.”

“Come now Companion, lighten up a little. You're not as excited as I thought you might be to get out from under father's nose for a bit.” Magnus didn't even look up from his book, but the Custodian felt the single glowing eye on him all the same as the Primarch added with more than a hint of irony, “Or is polishing bones your favourite pastime, _little Kitten_?”

Excellent, even in space and far from his battle-brothers he couldn't escape the double ententres. Or that damn name. He'd even signed what he was now sure was a literal demonic contract under that moniker. A name that might once have been affectionate during an earlier, much more tawdry phase of his life, but now was pretty much only derisive as his brother Custodians and even the Emperor used it. Life in the Imperium was generally grim and tragic, but clearly his was some kind of darkly comic farce.

“I...would prefer you didn't call me that, if it's all the same my Lord.”

“Oh come now,” Magnus lowered the book and rolled his eye at the Captain-General, “I was just poking a little fun at you. We both know that's more your brothers' thing, anyway. I will never understand why my father would pick those greased up exhibitionists to replace you.”

Now he was just rubbing it in. For 10,000 years the Captain-General, embarrassingly also known as Kitten, had served the Emperor as he sat immobile on his throne. He kept the life-support machines in order, cleaned and repaired the slowly-decaying body of the Master of Mankind as best he could and endured the taunts of Wamuudes, Custodisi and Karstodes with as much stoicism as he could muster. And for what? For that to be thrown in his face with a shitty deal made under duress and some insults filtered through a voice module. He felt movement behind him and turned to see that Magnus had somehow gotten up from the couch without a sound and was now standing beside and slightly behind him, about a head taller than Kitten at the moment. This was, of course, his choice, as he would frequently point out. Of all the Emperor's genetically-engineered Primarch sons, Magnus had gotten the lion's share of his psychic abilities. Even before becoming partially a creature of the Warp after losing his soul, Magnus had always had a flexible presence in the material plane.

Magnus placed a hand on Kitten's shoulder and turned him around and away from the window as Terra faded away into the distance. He was smirking (as he tended to do when not sulking) but there was some softness around the normally raptor-intense single eye set above the boldly sculpted cheekbones in his copper-red face. Reduced to close to the size of the smaller man, Magnus wasn't nearly as imposing as at his more typical 18-20ft stature. But of course, this was deliberate. The Custodian had dealt with Chaos before, and he knew well that anyone aligned with Tzeentch, the god of change and conspiracy, should only be trusted as far as they could be thrown. Which was a highly-variable distance, in this case, though not far. He reminded himself of that as Magnus spoke to him with uncharacteristic tenderness.

“It's like I said: I know what it's like for the Emperor to turn you away. But you're my Companion now and we're on an important mission. Think of it as an adventure! I remember how it felt stepping into the stars the first time I led my Legion on the Great Crusade...” Magnus trailed off wistfully, before shaking his head slightly. “But that was a long time ago. I'm wiser than I was then, and a bit worse for wear, but I think maybe you could relate to that, Companion. Is it OK if I call you that? There is no way I'm using your full name, though I'll stop calling you Kitten if you prefer I didn't. But _please_ stop calling me Lord.”

The Companion did not respond. He knew Magnus would take that as a yes. He also knew that, no matter what kind of friendly face the The Crimson King of Prospero put on, and no matter what he said about him and the Captain-General being peers and travel companions rather than Lord and Servant, it was all just a ruse. Probably. Unless the ruse was that it wasn't a ruse, but that he, the Captain General AKA Kitten would assume it was and actually Magnus was being sincere the whole time, but that he knew the Captain General would not think he was and the scheme hinged on that disbelief. It hurt the (former) Caretaker's head trying to puzzle out the half-daemon's motives, so he laid that thought aside. 

He missed the simplicity of his conditioning before the total mind-fuck of the months since they installed that TTS device in the Golden Throne. Frankly, it was all enough to make him want to tear off his armour and go swimming in a promethium tank. No thoughts, only firelight from the burning pool illuminating oiled abs as Santodes pulled him closer and...no, no this was not the time nor the place for that kind of thinking. Just as that thought crossed his mind, he heard Magnus chuckle softly as the Primarch gazed out the window beside him. A horrible idea occurred to the Captain General: what if Magnus had read his thoughts just now? He thought he remembered something about putting up a mental wall as a defence against psychic infiltration from some training he had done over the milennia, but it was doubtful even a practiced defence would work against the second most powerful psyker in the galaxy.

“I'm sorry...Magnus.” He would have to get used to being on a first-name basis with the Primarch, “It's been a long day and I think I'd really just like to go rest in my cabin and think for a while. I'll see you in the morning.

With a wave of his hand, Magnus used his powers to activate the door leading into the hallway, the other cabin directly across from this one, and returned to his couch. This was unnecessary, as the door was automatic anyway, but the psyker clearly enjoyed showing off the ease with which he used his powers whenever possible.

“Good night, Companion. Try to rest and get your mind off things because tomorrow I have some further stops along the way to discuss with you.”

Kitten sighed and left, mumbling a half-hearted return of Magnus' good-night farewell. Closing and locking the cabin door behind him, he stepped into the armourer terminal, the only light in the room the dim light of countless stars shining weakly in through the window. As the cybernetic attachments withdrew from their ports and the mechanical arms lifted away the heavy armour plate, he felt the cold, sterile air of the ship on his skin. Gooseflesh crept across his body, shadow-coloured in the dim light instead of his actual warm umber brown. Shivering slightly, he stepped into the cleansing chamber and held his breath as it sprayed him a chemical-smelling foam which dripped down off of him and into the reclamation drain before the vaccuum drier got to work removing all residual cleansing solution. He vaguely recalled at some point in the distant past that hot water showers used to be a normal thing. And maybe on some worlds they still were. This thought actually cheered him a little, realizing he might get to find one on their travels, perhaps.

Clean and dry, he slipped into a clean white under-shirt and briefs and stretched. Stepping carefully into bed, he crawled beneath the gravity blanket, eagerly awaiting the oblivion of sleep. Looking up, he was puzzled and mildly annoyed to observe that someone had installed a mirror above the bed on the ceiling, his own deep amber eyes looking back at him in confusion. Smart money was on one of his exhibitionist brothers in arms having used the ship to get up to something when unattended. He tried not to think about it too much, but the images came unbidden. Closing his eyes to avoid making shameful eye contact with himself, he grabbed a tissue from the bedside and stroked his hardening member under the blankets as he imagined what manner of oiled-up debauchery this room must have seen. 

He wasn't horny, not really, so much as in desperate need of some way to empty his thoughts after an honestly incredibly shitty day. With the practiced hand of a man who spends a lot of time sleeping alone he gripped the shaft with one fist and pumped, one knuckle of the other wedged between his teeth to keep himself from crying out as he paid special attention to the head of his cock. Tonight, he was not meaning to savor the sensation, but just find some relief as quickly as possible. 

His muscles tensed with a force that could crush a lesser man's bones and he gasped audibly, even with his mouth half-gagged by his own fist. With a shudder he came, though in the throes of pleasure, he was fastidious as ever and avoided spilling any semen on the fresh sheets. Tossing the soiled tissue in the trash disposal chute to be incinerated, he yawned, stretched out his muscular frame and drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how long this will be or how often I'll update, but I'll try to at least finish this story. Installments will probably be around 2k words apiece, I would guess. This will be a slower burn, but I'll do my best to make the payoff worth it.


	2. Morning Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Captain-General wakes up and sets about his morning routine before seeing if Magnus is awake yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing particularly sexy in this installment, but I did warn you this would be a slower burn. It'll warm up again soon enough.

The Captain-General rose after a fitful sleep, the events of the previous day still weighing on him. Technically, he could go without sleep if he wanted, but he liked the feeling. Plus, ever since the Emperor contacted him telepathically, he'd been keeping a little dream journal. He was...pretty...sure he wasn't secretly a psyker. If he were, that would likely mean either mutation had occurred (potentially a disastrous sign, indicating a new instability in Custodes genetics) or that possibly he was one all along, and that had somehow been missed. Worryingly, the second seemed less likely than the first.

Either way, it would be essential to rule psychic tendencies out. Still, he wasn't sure how one would go about secretly testing if one was a psyker for sure without attracting the wrong kind of attention, either from the Inquisition or from...things. The method he settled on was writing down his dreams and then referring back to them later to see if anything in them had come to pass, either literally or metaphorically. Sitting down at the writing desk, he produced a small golden-covered notebook (everything the Custodes were issued seemed to be gold, up to and including simple writing tools).

"Dreamed my brothers...broke into a library...and were beset by a...clown(???)"

He felt a bit silly writing this morning's entry, but if he was going to do this potentially incredibly useless experiment, he had to be consistent about it. He set the journal down while he waited for the ink to dry, slipped on his bodysuit and then stepped into the auto-armour station to get dressed for the day. Sure, he was perfectly capable of donning his armour unassisted. Still, it was nice not to have to do everything himself. As the pieces latched into place and interfaced with his body before humming to life, he tried to come up with a reasonable interpretation of what he had seen.

"Well, there's a library IN the palace. Several, in fact. But I don't understand why they would be there, given that none of them are the literary sort. Maybe the clown...is them? For being in the library? If they don't read? I am fairly certain that at least one of them is semi-illiterate?"

After millennia of mostly tending by himself to the Emperor, he had developed a habit of thinking out loud when he was alone if only to hear a human voice that wasn't positively dripping double entendres of the sort that poured out of his well-lubricated brothers. The tech-priests and their incessant toaster fixation did not count. Neither did the High Lords complaining about being old and shitting dust. Frankly, half the reason he'd been so excited for the TTS to be installed is he had expected a much more significant increase in the amount of even-keeled conversations around him. He contemplated how incredibly strange his usual range of social interactions was, even for a Custodes, as the device finished armouring him.

When everything had clicked into place, and the armour hummed softly to life before going silent and smooth, he walked back over to the desk, his footsteps echoing heavily in the small room. He sat and wrote down bullet points of possible interpretations for a minute or two. Given the sheer number of impossible things that had been happening lately, there was no point in ruling even incredibly ridiculous things out. He considered for a moment that he did have one of the most knowledgeable beings in the galaxy in this particular field on board the ship. If he told Magnus the Red, "Hey, your dad talked in my head, and now I'm wondering if I'm a psyker. Pls help", the reformed(?) daemon Primarch would probably be very interested in finding out if his father's Caretaker was secretly a psyker. After all, he'd been instrumental in establishing the Astartes Librarians the first time. But maybe he'd be a little too interested, which was its own set of problems.

He considered the astronomically high number of absolutely terrible things that could happen if he gave someone of immense psychic abilities and questionable loyalties direct access to his mind and shuddered, deciding that it was not worth the risk merely to satisfy a curiosity. The last thing he needed was Pink Horrors exploding out of his temporal lobe because **someone** slipped into old habits or just thought it would be hilarious. 

_He could pretty much make you do anything he wanted if you let him in_ , a voice at the back of his mind hissed. He was momentarily disgusted with himself that his reaction to that thought was only about 95% negative.

"I'm not joining Chaos, even if he does get his claws in there somehow." Somehow, this failed to quell the 5% that was entirely too keen on considering what "anything" might mean.

Ever a creature of habit, he rolled out a cloth onto the floor and set his weapon down. With a familiarity born of millennia of practice, he expertly field-stripped his Guardian Spear. He cleaned every piece, oiling the mechanical parts where a little lubrication was needed and taking special care not to gunk up the bore. He removed and inspected the bolt, cleaned it and then replaced it, testing the action. It all worked perfectly, like an extension of his Emperor-given biological perfection. Once he was finished with the internal workings, he moved to the exterior with a soft, smooth cloth and a smaller amount of light oil. He finished by gently buffing the halberd-like blade, the exterior moving components and rubbing the remaining oil up and down the shaft. It was not lost on him that if the Frictionless Wonders were here, they would probably have something lewd to say about that. One time he had threatened to plant the haft of his weapon entirely in their asses if they didn't stop teasing him while he was trying to maintain his equipment and the three of them had just broken into aroused guffaws for several minutes while continuing to come up with increasingly explicit ways to describe cleaning his weapon. 

He was glad that he had kept his armour and helmet on for the last several thousand years, as he could feel his cheeks burning just at the memory of it. Mental conditioning or not, the Captain General was actually pretty bad at guarding his responses to things. Best to leave it all on and be taken for a "fucking automaton," as the Emperor had put it. It was bad enough they persisted in calling him Kitten; he didn't need to start adding Tomato to the list of names.

By the time he was finished, the surface of the weapon shone so brightly it cast warm golden flecks around the room. It did occur to the Captain General that he was (hopefully) not likely to have to use it, but he was a man who took his responsibilities seriously. Plus, it was very relaxing to focus on a physical task and not overthink everything. It was not supposed to be his job to think too hard about things that weren't in his immediate sphere of responsibility, like clowns and whether he might be psychic. And the inherent eroticism of weapons and the awful things that probably suggested about him that that line of thinking made a lot of sense to him (although he was, essentially, a living weapon, so some wires getting crossed was to be expected). He glanced at the timepiece on the wall. It was around the time that he would usually be bringing tea into the throne room. He shrugged—no sense to break routines.

He exited the room and knocked lightly on Magnus' cabin door. No sound from within, just light snores. The Captain-General considered for a moment whether he should enter or not, but Magnus had said he wished to discuss the route he had planned that morning. Pushing a button to open the door, he walked inside as quietly as he could manage with heavy auramite boots. The only sound was soft snoring emanating from the side of the room opposite the bed, which did not appear slept-in. Magnus was still on the couch; one leg half-draped over the back and a bit of his hair cascading over the armrest. One foot rested on the floor, while the other knee was hooked over the back of the couch. _Even the way he sleeps is Chaotic_ , the Captain General inwardly chuckled. Tiptoeing as much as was possible in his armour, he crept around the side to find that the Primarch must have fallen asleep while reading.

Magnus' face was half-obscured by an open book resting on it, leaving just his mouth and chin uncovered. He looked like he had half-undressed for bed and then given up part-way through, the discarded torso armour components carelessly dropped in a heap on the floor. The arm not resting on his gently rising and falling chest was dangling over the side. He must have taken off the horned back and chest plates to get more comfortable and then decided to try for another chapter before going to bed. It's a bit odd that he could fall asleep accidentally. If Astartes and Custodes can stay awake if they feel like it, surely Primarchs should be able to as well? Maybe it was just some affectation of his, a way of pretending he was flesh and blood instead of Warp nonsense incarnate. The Captain General went to lift the book, then hesitated. From millennia of being Caretaker, his first instinct was to try to make him more comfortable, remove the book from his face, move the armour out of the way so there'd be no risk of tripping, perhaps cover him with a blanket. But, to be honest, that seemed like potentially a terrible idea.

Sure, the sorcerer-general did put up a relatively friendly front these days, but also just days before a comment meant wholly in jest had caused him to nearly destroy the palace. If the Captain-General hadn't managed to use that book Magnus carried (which, disturbingly, appeared to have a face)... He pondered for a moment the unsettling irony of using a Daemon Prince's book of incantations and—oh yeah—fresh Sororitas blood (a thing they _apparently_ just had lying around), to summon the greatest demon slayer the Imperium may have ever known. On the other hand, the Grey Knights got up to all sorts of weird and incredibly creepy stuff all the time, so that was on-brand at least. And there was no discounting the possibility that Magnus would be more annoyed at being allowed to sleep in if he planned to discuss their "mission" nice and early than he would be at being awoken. Taking a deep breath, the Captain-General reached out again and grabbed the book carefully with both hands by both open halves, careful not to let even a page swing down to brush the Primarch's face.

Before he even knew what had hit him, he was skidding across the floor on his back with a screech of auramite on tile, stopping only when he hit the wall head-first with a crash. Evidently, ten millennia in the Warp resulted in reflexive psychic violence if approached unexpectedly while sleeping. The Captain General winced at his stupidity.

_Of course, he wouldn't let his guard down even if he was sleeping. He's been in the Warp for 10,000+ years on a planet under the domain of a literal Chaos god of lies and schemes. You don't survive that by resting easy._

Picking himself up, the Captain General, still holding the book, looked over at the couch. Magnus was awake now, leisurely stretching and pushing himself up against the armrest into a reclining pose. He looked over at the Custodian and smiled wryly, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

"Sorry about that. I knew the Custodes didn't leave the palace often, but I guess you and your brothers really haven't seen action in millennia if you don't react at all to someone reaching for your face. Honestly, I am concerned about your survival reflexes. Are you alright, Companion?" The sarcastic smile remained, but there did appear some sincere concern in his voice. Lashing out with a psychic reflex like that probably would have caused anyone but a Custodes or perhaps a hardier Astartes a brain bleed.

"Yes, I am quite alright. I was designed to be able to take pretty much anything and still keep going."

"You must be glad that a certain battle-brother of yours wasn't here to hear you say that. You know, being able to take anything."

That sarcastic smile widened as Magnus stretched leisurely upwards and arched his back, displaying perfectly firm pecs and what could more accurately be described as an 8-pack rather than 6-pack abs, a faint crimson shimmer playing across the skin oh-so-slightly lit from within. The Captain-General was again glad for his helmet, as he had momentarily lost control of his face again, his jaw dropping ever so slightly. It would be considered a moderately well-restrained reaction from a guardsman but was a shocking display of emotion by Custodes standards.

_How does he keep himself looking like that when he spends seemingly his entire time in the throne room or the library?_

The Captain-General couldn't tell if he was more impressed with the results or just annoyed that Magnus probably could just **think** his way to being as sculpted as he pleased, no training required. He must have paused just a little too long in thought on the subject of Magnus' unquestionably very impressive physique, as the psyker Primarch turned to face him, sitting up and leaning forward slightly now. He cocked the brow of his remaining eye upwards curiously, his head tilted to the side as if the Captain General required further assessment. Feeling that single ever-changing eye fixed on him as if it could burn right through his armour, the Captain-General hurriedly shoved down any thoughts resembling admiration or approval. It could have been his imagination, but he couldn't help but note a slight droop in the raised brow when he managed to do so.

"Apologies, my Lo—I mean, Magnus. You fell asleep with this on your, er, face. I was just trying to move it and then fix us some breakfast, maybe? You said you'd wanted to talk about our travel itinerary in the morning, so I was coming to check on you."

"So _dutiful_!" The Primarch drew out the word in a way that was more than slightly teasing, but he did so with a disarming smile, flashing pearly white and only slightly-sharpened teeth, "I can see why my father seemed to like you, albeit in a taking-you-for-granted way."

It was probably heresy of some kind to accept a compliment that was also disparaging to the Emperor. Still, even he had to admit there was a point there. Or maybe this was some kind of Tzeentchian mind game to drag him over to Chaos. Both could be equally likely in the grand scheme of things, but it did feel good to be told he was appreciated. And there was probably no harm in accepting praise as long as he kept his wits about him.

Handing Magnus back his book, the Custodian made a slight bow and excused himself to the small private kitchen he had set up in his personal ship, apart from the crew. It would probably not do to have the sailors see one of the Emperor's mighty golden warriors—and a High Lord of Terra to boot—throwing himself into domestic chores, but it was one of his favourite simple pleasures to fix tea and breakfast in the morning. Even if the caffeine did nothing for him, and he could sustain himself just fine on nutrient paste, the ritual was soothing and helped him feel grounded. No sense in giving up his routines just because he was on some kind of cockamamie quest to save the Imperium and the Emperor from themselves with the help of a literal half-demon traitor Primarch, who could literally whisk any of them into the Warp at any moment and dump them somewhere as a great practical joke/gift for his remaining sons or his brothers...The Captain General shook his head.

"No, if he was going to do that he would have done so already. The Emperor trusts him and the Emperor is never wrong, right?"

His brain felt like it itched as he suppressed the urge to disagree with that last point. Opening the door to the kitchen, he set to work making breakfast and did his best to bury any thoughts bordering on treason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I would like to thank/blame the folks who commented or gave me kudos on the last installment. Also IRL I am making progress on my Slaanesh daemon units and have finally obtained a light box for taking better photos. I continue to pray to the Ruinous Powers that no one in my gaming group discovers my AO3 account.  
> As a side note, writing fanfiction again *has* actually helped with my creative block in my (heavy airquotes) "real" writing, so that's a positive development!


	3. All is Dust (including breakfast)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kitten and Magnus get ready to start discussing their travel plans in detail over a quick bite. Also, Kitten needs to learn to knock before entering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered tagging accidental voyeurism or exposure, but I'm not sure this was overtly sexual enough to actually count as that. Also, apologies in advance for how much of this is about food. I know that that is a fantasy writing trope that everyone seems to write while hungry, and I may have been slightly guilty of that here. Also, when I find a character I like sometimes it's fun to project your hobbies onto them.

“It's strange,” The Captain-General mused out loud to himself as he put the kettle on the stove, “that we'd managed to completely lose coffee but somehow we managed to set up tea plantations on some agri-worlds.”

He tried to conjure up the memory of what coffee—not recaff, actual coffee—tasted like and found he could not, though he had a dim memory of definitely having some during the unification wars. It was a rare luxury, even back then, only able to be grown in the scattered greenhouse domes you could still find on Terra in those days. Once, on campaign, some of the Thunder Warriors had ransacked a damaged greenhouse that was intended to grow luxury crops for the upper classes of a warlord's stronghold and they had organized a feast. The Captain-General, then just a Lieutenant, recalled the evening as not-unpleasant, with the cooks they had “borrowed” from the mortal troops managing to make quite a number of dishes.

He distinctly recalled one of the Thunder Warriors, having consumed an obscene amount of some local liquor with a sickly sweet taste, pressing an after-dinner mug of something hot and bitter into his hands, offering to add a shot of the afore-mentioned liquor as a comradely gesture. Unfortunately, his programming was much stronger in those days and he didn't seem able to muster the same feelings of enjoyment he saw in those around him. Perhaps that is why he had taken up cooking in these latter years, trying to recreate a better version of a memory from a time where the Imperium's best days were still ahead of it, and make himself feel something in the experience. It was strange to look back on those days with a much deeper capacity for and understanding of emotions and recall no strong feelings second-hand. If he had to describe it, recalling those memories was like remembering some event he had read about in great detail or seen in a video analysis—he knew what happened, had memories of being there and understood the context, but without any emotional memory he felt somewhat dissociated from his past self. Those things happened, but they might as well have included an entirely different person whose memories he just happened to have perfect access to.

Shrugging, as if to physically shake this uncharacteristically wistful mood from himself, he opened the metal canister to reveal the broken, dried leaves. Real tea, this stuff, not tanna leaves or any of the many substitutes that had been developed across a myriad of worlds over thousands of years. He inhaled and even with the air having to filter in through his helmet it smelled pleasantly earthy and perhaps slightly sweet. It was a good batch, and therefore probably cost more credits per hundred grams than most mortals could earn over several years. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a smile as he scooped it into the tea strainer and dropped it into the pot.

_Nothing like a hot cup of tea with a bit of milk and sugar to trick yourself into thinking everything is fine._

He filled the kettle and set it on the stove, humming to himself, and started work on figuring out what to make for breakfast. It occurred to him at this point that he hadn't thought to ask Magnus what he wanted. He was just going to make some scrambled protein slurry and toast, but maybe that was a little too basic. Nearly all records of Prospero had been destroyed, but from what he could recall they had been known for their food and wine. He vaguely remembered a feast being held shortly after The Emperor had found him. There were sweet nut-breads drizzled with honey, various fresh fruits, salads of herbs and leafy greens, some sort of stewed beans with an obscene amount of onions and garlic, served with plenty of red wine and a peculiar sort of thick, sweet beer to wash it all down with. After being onboard the ship for months, possibly years, the mortal troops who were lucky enough to be awarded an invitation had wept at the sight of it. The Captain-General recalled it being not-unpleasant, which is the closest he was probably able to come to actual pleasure in those days. Looking in the cupboards, they had nothing approximating any of that, however, so Magnus would have to be alright with protein slurry and toast.

Frankly, the fact that the bread was made of actual grain was an obscene luxury by Imperial standards, so it wasn't as if it weren't fit for a general. And if the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes was eating it, it was definitely good enough for someone who under normal circumstance he would have immediately tried to banish to the Warp on sight! A wave of righteous indignation washed over him as he imagined Magnus having the nerve to insult his cooking, even jokingly, and he took a breath to calm himself before he got worked up over something that hadn't even happened yet. The stress of the past few months was starting to get under his skin, putting an edge on his normally fairly cheery disposition that he didn't particularly like. It was bad enough that he even had a personality to speak of, no sense in ruining the fairly pleasant one he had developed now that he had one.

Besides, he thought to himself as he set a small frying pan on the burner to warm and dropped some slices of bread in a toaster (which he was fairly sure had been kept away from the...enthusiasts), if you cooked the slurry the right way, it wasn't too bad. He sliced a bit of grox-fat off a wrapped chunk in the refrigerator and threw it in the pan to melt while he retrieved the carton of protein slurry, pouring it in with the melted fat. With frequent stirring over low heat, he had managed to work out a way to make it form soft, creamy curds as the proteins coagulated rather than a solid, rubbery puck. It was vaguely reminiscent of what he remembered scrambled eggs being like, although he expected that a head-to-head comparison the slurry would still lose, even if prepared by someone who had been working on ways to make it palatable for centuries.

The kettle was boiling now, so he took a moment to pour it into the pot. A benefit of his insistence of wearing full armour all the time was that he never had to reach for an oven mitt or cloth to protect his hands. That, and if the ship came under attack, he would be ready at a moment's notice to defend. Not that that was likely, assuming that Magnus was planning to stay in Imperial space.

_Wait, did he even say we were staying in Imperial space?_

The Custodian remembered with a start that he still had no idea of where they were actually going, or if it would take them into friendly or hostile space. The end destination was Nocturne, home of the Salamanders, but that didn't really tell him anything about the intermediary steps of that plan. For all he knew, Magnus had come up with the kind of scheme that required an army to pull off (plausible, considering they were attempting to loot a sacred artifact from a Space Marine fortress-monastery), and there was one very specific army that he would have at his ready use. With a growing feeling of unease, he wondered if he should have a word with the ship's captain and navigator about disregarding any and all orders to head for the Eye of Terror.

_But you agreed to serve him. You are oath-bound, even. And you were willing to assassinate the high lords already, which went pretty well (after a fashion). If he were to try to seek aid from his Sons, who's to say it would actually be a bad idea._

“Shut up, thoughts. I am only here because I want to help free The Emperor from the Throne.”

_Great, you've been on this mission for less than a day and are already having arguments with yourself._

Taking a deep breath and trying to force a positive attitude, he arranged the tea, toast and scrambled egg-adjacent substance on the platter and headed back towards the cabin. The doors opened ahead of him as he walked down the hall, trying to will himself into cautious optimism. Not thinking to knock, he nudged the panel to open the door. He wasn't looking up as he entered the room, focusing on keeping the contents of the tray level. This attention to detail was almost for nothing, as a moment later he nearly dropped the whole thing.

“Hey Magnus, I've brought break—oh my Throne I'm sorry I didn't knock!”

His face burning with embarrassment, the golden-armoured warrior turned around and awkwardly found a table to put the tray down on, careful not to turn around.

“Ah, Companion. Sorry, didn't hear you come in. I thought I'd have more time before you got back.”

Magnus had been sitting in a lotus position when the Captain-General had entered the room, clearly interrupted in the middle of some sort of meditation. That was to be expected. What was not expected is that he had clearly decided to squeeze in his meditation in between a quick shower and getting dressed. A towel lay on the floor below him, but Magnus himself was covered in nothing other than faint hints of Warp-fire licking around the contours of his sculpted frame. In addition to being fully nude, he had also levitated several feet in the air and, while his muscular legs crossed in front of him did provide some coverage, it was impossible to ignore that below them the outline of taut buttocks were silhouetted against the window, or that they didn't necessarily hide everything else either. The Captain-General was suddenly acutely aware that, yes, the curtains did match the drapes and that Magnus clearly was far more into grooming than his brother Leman was. And was his skin wet from the chemical shower still—perhaps a faulty liquid retrieval and drying system?

No. That seemed unlikely, given that they had given all systems a check-over before embarking. Had he oiled himself down, perhaps? He was looking a little too glowy and defined for that to be entirely natural, and oiled muscles could look wet, but it seemed odd that he would do that. After all, what purpose would that serve? It would be absolutely beneath someone of Magnus' rank and considerable pride to feel any need to impress a glorified bodyguard to his father, and it was beyond laughable that he would have done anything to emulate the frankly gratuitous displays his brother Custodes made of themselves, but he was glistening nonetheless. Maybe it was some kind of ritual component? Yes, that must be it. Or perhaps, in keeping with his grooming habits, he was also aware of the need to moisturize while travelling onboard a ship that tended to have very drying air. Of course he had only had a momentary glimpse before he turned away, so maybe it was simply his imagination. Despite him having been intruded upon in what was clearly a private moment, however, Magnus seemed...unbothered.

“Just a moment while I put something on.”

The Captain-General could hear a rustling of cloth and a clink of metal-on-metal as Magnus presumably dressed behind him. There were none of the tell-tale sounds of power armour being donned, which surprised him. In the relative safety of the Palace, Magnus had kept his on at all times. Arguably, even in Imperial space, the ship was orders of magnitude less secure than easily the most fortified location in the entire Imperium. As he pondered this question if did occur to him that the question of safety was incredibly relative. Magnus was an enemy of the Imperium less than a year ago. Perhaps he didn't feel as comfortable there as he let on, especially with his being brought back into the fold far from widespread knowledge.

“You surprise me, Companion. I know you kept rather more covered-up than most of your brothers, but I wouldn't have thought you'd find my daily meditations shocking.”

His voice was playful, but with an edge of judgment. Preposterously, the Captain-General now felt as embarrassed for turning away as he had for seeing him in the nude or for the amount of thought he had put into the way his muscles seemed unusually highlighted. He felt a mild tinge of irrational anger at this. How dare he make him feel guilty about trying to be respectful!

“I mean I appreciate you respecting my privacy,” Magnus continued, the haughty tone dropped now, “but honestly it's fine. What's a little unintentional frontal exposure between friends? And you can turn around now.”

When the Captain-General picked the tray back up and turned around, Magnus had moved to the head of a long table. He was still topless, though wearing a decorated pectoral collar of gold, lapis and jade with a scarab motif. From the waist down he wore a sort of linen kilt, with a brocaded belt holding it up, and lace-up gold sandals. He looked like some ancient king of old Terra, the sort that Prosperan culture had taken heavy influence from, which was probably the point. The Emperor's sons all had a definite aesthetic they clung to, and Magnus was not shy about his fondness for his long-dead home world. Gold bracers and bicep cuffs completed the look, although the Captain-General was a little surprised he hadn't gone full Pharaoh and done dramatic kohl eyeliner. Or maybe that was just for special occasions, rather than a casual breakfast. Speaking of which, the Caretaker nearly dropped the platter when he saw the table next to Magnus.

Seemingly (and obviously) out of nowhere, Magnus had conjured up a spread quite similar to the one he had been thinking of earlier. He wasn't even sure some of those varieties of fruit even existed anymore, let alone real honey. Looking down at the tea, toast and protein slurry, the Captain-General suddenly felt incredibly inadequate. Sure, he did the best he could with the resources available, but this was practically cheating. It also seemed a pretty convenient coincidence that many of the dishes he specifically had thought about, aside from some of the heartier dinner options, were represented here on this table.

“Where—where did you get all this.”

“Ohhhhh just a little everyday sorcery. I mean I could demolish this ship with a thought, it's not like it's hard to conjure up a little bite to eat.”

“Ok, so first thing: please don't talk about destroying the ship, even as a joke. Second: please don't take this the wrong way, but is everything on that table made of Warp-stuff?”

“Uh...that's a complicated question. Yes, it is technically created through the application of Warp energies on common elements present in the raw materials used, but the actual substances themselves are real in every meaningful sense. The psychic energies are more of a tool than an ingredient is how I would think of it.”

“So if I were to have a sanctioned psyker scan over this table, they'd notice nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Welllllll...technically the entire thing is kiiiind of radiating Warp energy. It's what's maintaining the structural integrity of the food and also the place settings. Without it, it would kind of crumble into dust and assorted gases.” He paused for a second, then continued with a slightly more pensive expression, though the smile did not fade entirely, “All is dust, including this breakfast. Story of my life.”

The Captain-General scrutinized Magnus' face. It was so hard to tell what he was thinking. His tone was friendly, but that hint of a smirk seemed untrustworthy, like he was playing some kind of private joke on his travelling companion. After millennia of tasteless practical jokes at his expense, the Captain General had a strict safety-first policy with regards to food and drink—you put your cup of tea down for one minute and suddenly someone's gone and put raw promethium in it. On the other hand, Magnus' face seemed to alternate between regally serious and sly half-smiles within every conversation they had, so maybe that meant nothing. He had agreed to trust him, to help him on this mission and to serve him (as a means of serving the Emperor's best interests, of course), and Magnus hadn't tried to kill him for at least a couple of days (and really, he was probably not fully aware of doing that), but still he was uneasy.

“If it's all the same to you, My Lord, I've already made myself something. I'd hate for it to go to waste.”

The Captain-General had meant for this to be a polite refusal, but perhaps it came off a little more curt than intended. For a second he could have sworn he saw Magnus' voluminous hair visibly droop. It was an odd quirk of many psykers that something about their physical being would respond to their emotions. Usually this was small—perhaps a movement of the hair or clothing or shift in aura, maybe a chilly draft from nowhere when annoyed—and generally a sign of either an inexperienced psyker who was still learning to control their powers or perhaps a more skilled one who was just feeling particularly emotional. This lack of conscious control was surprising from someone who he would have expected to have perfect mastery of his powers at all times (he was “the second most powerful kinda-sorta-human in the galaxy”, after all). It seemed ludicrous to imagine he couldn't control it if he wanted to, so either he didn't care to repress this or he was allowing it to happen for effect. Either way it was a childish reaction to not-unwarranted caution and a reasonable desire to avoid food waste.

Glad that he was wearing his helmet, he couldn't help but smile at the reaction he had provoked in Magnus. The idea of someone's hair pouting was not only funny in and of itself, but amusingly at odds with Magnus' reputation either as a serious scholar or a vengeful daemon. Emperor help him, it was almost endearing. Not enough to make the Custodian want to yank his helmet off and scarf down the entire breakfast unquestionably, of course. But for someone who had arguably been one of the most inhuman of his siblings, being obviously put out at his possibly-cursed food not being eaten was a charmingly, well, human reaction.

Awkwardly aware of Magnus looking at him pointedly, the Captain-General sat down and spread some margarine over the toast, which he topped with the scrambled proteins. It might not be figs with honey-cakes and mint tea or that really nice-smelling stewed bean dish with soft bread, but by Imperial standards it wasn't half bad. As he went to raise his faceplate, he realized Magnus hadn't actually seen him without his helmet yet. Come to think of it, no one had in ages. He remembered having taken an oath at some point, but honestly it was so long ago he barely felt like the same person who had sworn it. Bringing a hand to the catch of his helm that would allow him to lift a portion of it up, he pressed the release and felt the click that indicated it was loose. He was about to lift it up when he hesitated.

“Is...everything all right, My Lo—I mean, Magnus”

“Hmm?”

The Captain-General had chosen to speak just as the Primarch had filled his mouth with a large amount of what looked to be seasoned mashed beans on flatbread. This was not intentional, but it did mean he could speak a little more freely Taking advantage of the larger man's temporary inability to speak, he pressed on with his questions.

“Sorry, you were just looking at me, I thought. Staring, really.”

Magnus swallowed and washed the bite down with some mint tea.

“Well, Companion, it's just that it did take a fair amount of fairly sophisticated Warp-craft to create food that is a) edible and b) good. It's one thing to turn someone inside out with your mind, but it's quite another to make them a decent breakfast. Especially if they're someone you know is always doing things for other people and you thought maybe they would appreciate someone doing something nice for them.”

Magnus was trying to keep his tone light, but that barely dulled the edge of passive-aggression in his voice. Despite himself, the Captain General found himself feeling guilty. The first time in ages that someone does something genuinely nice to him and he rejects it? Was he being judgmental? Was he, in fact, the asshole here? Unable to clearly articulate a reply, he just stammered. And that's where Magnus found his opening.

Before the Captain-General could jump back, or even close the faceplate on his helmet, Magnus had leapt across the table, grabbed the plume on the back of the Custodian's helmet to pull his head back as he loomed over him, pulled back the face-plate and...popped a piece of something in his mouth. Without thinking, perhaps stunned by the sudden intrusion of Magnus into his personal space, he bit down and felt small pockets of juice bursting in his mouth followed by crunchy seeds. Bitter-sweet, and a little tart. It was a flavour he couldn't place, but it was pretty good. Dumbfounded, he chewed and swallowed. He did not explode, and it felt and tasted real enough. No sudden new voices at the back of his mind. It was...basically just normal food, if you didn't think too hard about how it was made.

Magnus had retreated back a couple steps, a look of satisfaction on his face. In his hand he held the rest of the thing he had just hand-fed his companion a piece of. Thick red skin, about the same colour as his own, was torn open to reveal innards composed of many tiny flesh-covered seeds. Depending on how you looked at it, it either resembled a clutch of tiny jewels or an open wound. Maybe a little of both. Dimly, the Captain General registered that, up close, he could with some confidence confirm that yes, Magnus had definitely applied some kind of body oil, though it was impossible to rule out ritual function vs aesthetics vs just not wanting to have dry skin. He fairly shimmered in this light as red juice dripped down his arm. He must have squeezed the fruit a bit harder than intended when he had torn off that bite or jumped over to give some to his companion. Noticing this, he licked the scarlet trickle nonchalantly before continuing on. The Captain General once again felt his face growing hot, and he hoped that between the merciful ability of melanin to hide small hints of a blush and wearing most of his helmet still, it wouldn't be noticed.

 _I'm blushing because I am embarrassed both that he caught me off guard and that he just licked himself instead of using a napkin or something. It's just undignified and that is what I am responding to_ , he thought to himself very self-consciously as if he were dictating to his own brain after the fact what his thoughts were.

“Well, Companion. I think you'll find I haven't poisoned you. Now, will you join me for breakfast while we discuss our plans for real, or do you still not trust me to hold up my end of the bargain?”

The Captain General didn't say anything, but he did turn to face Magnus, who had now returned to a seat opposite him. Watching the Primarch's face, he reached for a sweet roll of some kind and placed it on the small plate in front of him. Magnus seemed to take some enjoyment in watching him awkwardly life the face-plate just enough to lift a bite to his mouth. Without being asked, he poured a second cup of mint tea and set it in front of the Custodian. Having already demonstrated that he could overpower him or take him by surprise if he wanted to, Magnus clearly felt no need to ask if the Captain General would have any. It was just going to be assumed he would, though he wasn't enough of a jerk to comment on the fact that the Captain General was starting to load up his plate and had pushed the platter aside, except for his tea. Once he had accepted that he was going to accept the risk of [ **SUDDENLY, DEMONS!]** in his GI tract, it was hard to resist the fact that it was basically all delicious. And it was nice to have someone else 'cooking' for him. As his dining companion ate, Magnus, who had already made a sizable dent in his portion, cleared his throat.

“All right. So I have given some thought to what we need to do, and, while our end destination is still Nocturne, I have realized that while we are out of the Palace aaaaaanyway perhaps we have some other...errands...to run.”

“I'm sorry, but could we perhaps stick to what you said we were going to do? First you convince me to sign what I think is technically a demonic pact to save the Imperium, but then have me assassinate the other High Lords (I mean yes they were all Lacrymoles, but we didn't know that). Then you convince me to leave Terra without telling anyone to go steal a sacred relic of their Primarch from the Salamanders. Now, you're saying that that isn't enough and now we have to go do something else?”

“Just a couple additional stops. For the good of the Imperium, of course.”

Magnus' voice was casual, but his eye glittered with conspiratorial excitement. The Captain General had seen that look before. Usually on the face of an Inquisitorial agent explaining that the reason that they had been caught trying to pull the plug on the Golden Throne was that they were confident that allowing the Emperor to properly die would be the only way he could return to life. This explanation was usually cut short by a sudden case of headlessness.

“We're not going for a visit to the Eye of Terror to see your sons.” His voice was deep and authoritative. More so than perhaps he had intended.

Magnus appeared momentarily crestfallen. That had touched a nerve, and for a second the Captain General felt an inkling of regret for bringing it up. He hadn't even thought until now what the sudden separation from Magnus' Legion must feel like. As the leader of the Emperor's most trusted and faithful warriors (some mild semi-treason in accepting the contract aside), he had no love for the Thousand Sons, but it would be unreasonable to believe Magnus felt nothing about being hauled out of his tower by Ultramarines without saying goodbye. And when they had been sorting those letters, he had noticed that the one from that Thousand Sons psyker had been written in a slightly unsteady hand. Sure, they were all filthy Chaos worshippers who needed to be put to the sword with extreme prejudice until such time as their gene-sire somehow managed to screen them for willingness to switch loyalties back and they had had a chance to eliminate excessive mutation or possession (and also figure out what to do with the Rubricae), but it must be acknowledged that there were probably some genuine feelings of loss there.

“That...wasn't what I meant to say. Though now that you bring it up, that actually will need to be addressed eventually.” He looked saddened by this subject, but after a moment managed to brighten his voice back up again, “No, Companion. We are going somewhere probably far more to your liking (for now).”

The Captain-General had a bad feeling about this.

“Make sure you get your best dress uniform ready, Companion. We're going to...pay our respects...in the crypts beneath the Citadel of Titan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I know there's been a bit of a gap, but last month I did NaNoWriMo (I managed to hit my goal!) and this month I think I've just been stressed. Hopefully the tone didn't shift too much from a change in mood or being written a couple months apart. In hobby news, I tried out doing some extra weathering on a Death Guard vehicle I'd assembled ages ago but not painted, and my Slaanesh daemons are coming along well. Really happy with the colour scheme on them. I hope you are all safe and well, and may 2021 be kinder to us all than 2020 was.


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